sirius remembers a first year boy, starry eyed, breathless, gazing wonderingly at a grinning girl who looks delighted with the professor’s praise. he sees a black head bent studiously over his notes, hearts and initials and dreams scrawled over the edges of every page. he recalls a fifth year boy, pompous and desperate for scraps of attention, cut down sharply by a stormy green-eyed girl, stamping back to the dormitory and collapsing in tears. he sees a tired prefect with red-rimmed eyes apologizing to his softened counterpart, pushing his heart aside to become a worthy friend first. he remembers a frantic seventh year practicing his speech over and over and over– “what if she says no, what if she turns me down, why would she ever date me, why did i think this would work–” sirius remembers a glowing couple breathlessly twirling around the dance floor, wedding guests watching raptly on as fiery red bends towards tousled black. he sees a radiant couple looking incredulously at their first-born, a reflection of their sums, a promise and a melding of hearts, as they look to one another and smile: brilliantly, inexpressibly, achingly in love.
When the Soviet Union was pushing towards Berlin, an SS soldier was forced to play a piano for his captors. They made it clear in sign language that he would be executed the moment he stopped. He played for 22 hours, after which he collapsed in tears. They congratulated him, then shot him.
Sorry for the absence… yet again. Regular uploads will be brought back probably late May whenever school is finally out for me. Until then posts will be arbitrary… I hope you don’t mind.
TRIGGER WARNING: Depression, self harm, suicidal thoughts, low-self esteem, strong language, etc (Let me know if I missed any)
This is a little something I put together when I was going through something a while back. If you or a loved one are going through something like this shown in this imagine (Really just suicidal thoughts, depression, anxiety, etc.), please call this suicide prevention hotline: 1-800-273-8255
If you ever need someone to talk to and you feel uncomfortable calling this number, feel free to contact me personally. (Please don’t use anon because I don’t want to post it for the internet to see)
As for permission before reposting on another platform.
You’re so ugly.
You aren’t good enough.
Why do you even exist?
He doesn’t love you.
The world will be better off without you.
You sat in the dimmest part of your bedroom, your head in your hands and the blade beside you. You knew going back into that old habit was terrible. But at times like these, it was hard to have any self-control.
The thoughts weren’t sparked by comments from some of Tom’s fans that despised you. You “got used” to them, but nevertheless, you deleted your Instagram and snapchat minutes before your emotional breakdown.
Really, nothing really triggered you into this. You woke up today and thought. I’m not okay. Why am I not okay? You thought about your life. You were in college, which was well payed for by your family. You’re dating a freaking celebrity. So why did you feel this way?
Tears rolled down your face as the dark thoughts pounded against your skull. You’ve thought about this plenty of times as a young teen. And you thought about if you actually went through with your initial plan, you wouldn’t have met Tom. You wouldn’t have fallen in love.
But here you are. In love. Yet so broken. But rest assured it wasn’t his fault in any way.
The thoughts. The self doubt. The self hatred. The loathing. The depression. The need to dig the blade into your wrist to make a deep vertical cut.
It all hit you like a Tidal Wave.
No one will miss you.
Just one cut. Doesn’t even have to be too deep.
You aren’t good enough.
They hate you.
He hates you.
You’re just a parasite to him.
And before you could stop yourself, you grabbed the blade and slashed at your skin four times. You stared in horror as the blood dripped from your skin to the beige carpet. Your breath was shaky as you dropped the blade and broke into sobs.
Then you heard him.
“Babe? You won’t believe what happened at the park with these squirrels!” Tom’s accent rang through your flat. You shot up, picking the razor up and throwing in the trash bin, slicing your finger tips in the process. You grabbed some tissues and plopped them on top of the blood stains, cursing at yourself.
“You dumb fuck.” You muttered to yourself, realizing that those stains will never come out. Tom called for you again, you hear Tessa’s barking becoming louder as she smelled your blood. “Just a minute, Tommy!” You called back, practically slamming your fistful of tissue onto the stains. “Dumb fuck.” You muttered at yourself once again.
Then you heard the door swing and Tom say. “What the fuck?” You kept your back towards him, your bleeding wrist held tightly against your chest, as you kept cleaning. “Babe what did you spill?”
“N-nothing.” You whispered, wiping away, the tissues tearing apart.
He walked over to you. Tessa pushed past him and onto the bloodstains, howling and barking. Tom turned you around to see your nightshirt covered in blood along with your bloody wrist and hands. “What did you do?” He said in horror. He hates you. The voice hisses again.
And that’s when you burst into tears.
The silence was filled with Tessa’s alert barks as you collapsed into Tom’s arms in tears. He pried your arm from your chest to see the four scars bleeding but not enough to were it was life threatening. He got up. He’s going to leave you. He hates you. But to your surprise, he helped you up too.
Tom walked the both of you to the bathroom where he had you put your wrist against the running faucet. He then washed them for you. Then Tom fetched a huge bandage and covered it.
Tom finally broke the silence. “Why?” He asked, his jaw tight.
You exhaled a shaky breath before saying. “I-I don’t know.”
“Damn it, (Y/N)!” Tom yelled as he began to cry, his hands slamming on the bathroom counter, making you flinch. He immediately noticed and apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, love. I-I just want to know why.” You stayed silent. “I want to know why you, the most caring, selfless, beautiful, amazing, sweetest girl would do that.” There was more silence. “Is it because of me? Am I not around enough? Am I not good enough?”
“No!” You exclaimed. “You’re the caring one. You’re the selfless one. You’re the amazing one. You’re the most attractive person in the world. And I’m wondering if I’m not good enough for you. Am I a charity to you, Holland?”
“No.” He said, pulling you into him, hugging you tightly.
“Then why are you dating someone like m-me? I’m normal. I’m ugly. I’m not perfect. I do this. Why are you with me when you can have literally anyone better?” You asked as you cried.
Tom pulled away, pushing fallen pieces of hair from your face. “You are beautiful. You’re the love of my life and I don’t want you or anyone else to hurt you. Okay? I love you so much. Please never again. I’m here, baby. I’m always here.”
That might’ve been the fifth time a groan escaped out of Byun Baekhyun’s body interrupting you as you read. You try not to get annoyed with your friend as you fold the corner of the book to keep your place. If he was going to put a pause on your reading with all his groaning it was better to find out what the problem was sooner than later.
Help god this is embarrassing but I've literally got no one else to ask, so: I'm a Slytherin and I think I've fallen in love with my hufflepuff friend--cliche, I know, but any advice??
Hold on a sec while I tick “become a Harry Potter specialist agony aunt” off my Long-Term Goals list.
Well. If you are a Draco or Blaize type Slytherin, then you have nothing to worry about. Swish about in all-black, look devastatingly beautiful, drop casual reminders about your family’s wealth and stature and simply allow the Hufflepuff to be drawn into your orbit, like a tiny piddling planet to your evil green sun.
If however, you are more of a skulking lurking creeping little coward of a Slytherin (like me) then I would try to appeal to the Hufflepuff’s innate kindness and love of nature. Perhaps you could walk past them in the Great Hall and accidentally drop a book. The Hufflepuff will pick it up and return it to you (kindness).
“Oh this,” you say, casually, “I was just trying to get in a few more chapters before Herbology.”
The Hufflepuff looks down. The book’s title is “The Root Of All People: My Journey from Death Eater to President of the Society for the Protection of Orphaned Mandrakes (SPOM), and the Lessons I Learned Along The Way”.
“You care about Mandrakes?” says the Hufflepuff, close to tears.
“It’s just..” you pause, also fighting tears. “They just scream and scream…and nobody listens you know? Society just puts on its earmuffs and turns away…it’s like nobody has ever thought to ask, WHY are they screaming? Why?”
Then you can both collapse into tears and go get a snack and talk more about plants and feelings etc etc. Owzat?
‘i really want an imagine when y/n is really happy with Simon and stuff but then like one day it hit her, she notices all these little things that tell her that he doesn’t love her anymore and then she finds out that he’s cheating and smth like that’
The entire house was silent. Nobody dared to speak. To move, to breathe. Tension filled the air, a thick, vicious substance. The marble of the kitchen island was the only thing separating me and him.
He sat across from me, his eyes focused on the surface in front of him. I kept mine glued to him.
“How long for, Simon?”
He pulled his lip beneath his teeth, chewing the skin, still not looking up at me. I waited patiently for an answer. My legs shook discreetly against the bar stool; I wasn’t sure if this was down to nerves, or just plain anger. Anger seemed easier to come to reason with.
“I don’t know, Y/n.”
“Bullshit.” I cut him off, my tone full of toxicity. Simon was visibly taken aback. His eyes closed, as if he had just been hit in the face. I silently begged myself to keep up the anger act, knowing this would help the conversation massively. I wanted him to believe that was all I was: angry.
“Y/n why do you even want to know? How will that information help you in any way?” He bit back with the same poisonous tone, his stubborn ways shining through.
“Because I want to know Simon, can you not even offer me that decency?”
“Fine Y/n you wanna know! Six months, that’s how long! That better?”
“Six fucking months. Better?”
My blood ran cold through my veins as realisation hit. I looked him deep in his eyes. “Six months ago…that was when we had the conversation. When I told you I felt like you didn’t love me anymore.”
His face softened, lips parting slightly. He looked up finally, making eye contact and suddenly all the anger subsided.
“No, Y/n, I swear-”
“I was right wasn’t I?” My voice was soft, surprisingly calm but audibly hurt. “You fell out of love with me then, didn’t you?”
“No, Y/n, I didn’t fall out of love with you then.” It was his turn to hurt. He mirrored my tone, sounding hoarse and uncomfortable.
“But you fell in love with her.”
Again he focused on the island, breaking the eye contact. I let my eyes flutter shut. It felt as if somebody had sucker punched me in the chest. I wanted nothing more than to climb over the counter and hit him, and then hug him, and tell him I hate him but tell him I love him too. I envisioned that conversation six months ago, how we sat by the fireplace, how I opened myself up to him in all my vulnerability. I wanted to run back in time and sit by my past self, tell her to run, run as fast as she possibly could. I wanted to be the Y/n from seven months ago, before it all went down hill. But in this moment, I am not Y/n from seven months ago, and Simon isn’t Simon from seven months ago and we are nothing but two broken, incompatible souls sitting across from eachother at a table.
“Did you love her?”
“Simon answer the question. Did you love her?”
He inhaled, closing his eyes. “Not at first.”
“But you grew to.”
“More than you loved me?”
Laying astray on the table in front of him, his phone vibrated, breaking the silence. He looked up at me immediately and I laughed.
“That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Y/n are you sure you want to do this-”
“Answer me Simon.”
He stared at the phone, not touching it as the vibration died out slowly. His voice was merely a whisper.
“Simon did you ever really love me?”
“Y/n are you serious?” Again he looked up at me. His sea blue eyes were glassed over with tears, presumably a mixture of guilt and regret. His voice was louder, filled with passion and shock but still hoarse. “Of course I fucking loved you! You were the first person I ever loved, my first girlfriend, the first girl I introduced to my parents. How could you even ask that? I loved you with my everything.”
It was my turn to avoid his eye as I looked down, watching a single tear splash onto the marble. My lips trembled, chest aching.
“So what changed your mind?”
“I don’t know, Y/n,” he sniffed, his head turning away, looking around the room. “I wish I knew.”
“Simon,” I whimpered. My entire careless, angry act shattered around me as I hugged myself, wrapping my own arms around me in an act of comfort, something I’d been doing since I was about five years old. “Is it my fault? Is there anything I could’ve done to change your mind?”
“No, Y/n please don’t blame yourself this isn’t your fault.”
“Then why wasn’t I enough Simon?”
I collapsed into tears, putting my head in my hands. Never had I been more ashamed of myself. I wanted to be rude, angry, spiteful, maybe even hateful. I wanted to come here, cuss him out and then leave him speechless and full of regret as I walked away. But instead, I crawled back into his arms, my mascara stained tears staining his t-shirt. I was broken and I knew it. Simon was everything I had ever wanted, and everything I would continue to want for the rest of my life. More than anything I wanted to fight for him - after all, if you don’t fight for what you want, you cry for what you lose - but deep down, I knew it was useless. I would be fighting a losing battle.
I think that hurt the most. Physically I was in Simon’s arms, but mentally he wasn’t here. Mentally he was with her. He had walked out of the door a long, long time ago.
“Y/nickname you were enough, you were always enough I swear to fucking God. The problem isn’t you not being enough, it’s me being too much. I’m fucked up, I’m disloyal, I’m a cheat. And you deserve more than that.”
A tear landed in my hair, this time not one of my own. As he held me I became more and more aware of how alien the warmth felt. In fact, it didn’t feel like warmth at all. It was cold, and sad, and lonely. This wasn’t my home anymore and I knew it.
“Simon,” I pulled away, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. “I have to go.”
“Please, you can’t leave like this, this can’t be the last image I have left of you in my mind.” He let the tears flow freely and I bit my lip to hold mine.
“I’m sorry Simon. I need to go,” I picked my bag up off the floor, heading towards the kitchen door. As I reached it I turned to face him.
“I really hope she was worth it, Simon. I hope you change for her. I hope when you hold her it feels so warm, and so right, and so happy. I hope she appreciates your hold because every time you hold her she’s sitting comfortably in the only place I ever called home. I hope she really makes you happy, Simon.”
I wished I meant my words to be bitchy and spiteful, but I didn’t. I meant them to be genuine. Because that’s what happens when you love somebody; you want the best for them. Even if that best isn’t you.
Characters: reader, Steve, Sam, Natasha, Tony (mentioned), Clint (mentioned) Maria Hill
Summary: Falling for a good man, who happened to be her training partner, was unavoidable. Does the reader have the courage to find out if he feels the same way? What if he doesn’t? Life rarely unfolds the way we hope it would. (Events take place after CATWS)
Warnings: lil fluff, lotta angst. Heartbreak. I’m sorry.
A/N: This one hurt. Once again, I drew from my own personal experiences, so it took a lot out of me to write. I hope you enjoy it? Part 2 will be out in a few days, I promise! It’s already written and will be the last, with a possible epilogue. Please let me know your thoughts! Special thanks to @buckyywiththegoodhair for reading this over! You’re a darling!
This is not a funny story, but after all the fluffiness I wrote lately, I wanted to write something…kinda sad. Not the angstiest story I ever written but…just not just fluff. There’s still some fluffy moments though, and maybe you won’t find it sad at all, maybe it won’t touch you (and didn’t proofread because of reasons), it’s also maybe a bit (a lot) cheesy but…Oh well, hope you’ll still like it :
-If you don’t, they will both die. It’s as simple as that, you have to take a decision. Now.
Bruce’s head is spinning, and he cannot hear anything else but the fast beating of his heart. Why was this happening ? Why couldn’t something go right for once ? Hasn’t he and his family suffered enough already ?
He feels light headed and sits down on the cold metal chair, in a cold and way too bright hospital corridor. His sons are here, and he just faintly feels their hands supporting him, helping him sit down, stroking his back soothingly, hugging him to try and make him feel better…But he cannot feel better.
He has to make an impossible choice.
Mercilessly, the doctor insists once more, because time is running out :
-Your wife, or the child mister Wayne ? We cannot save both of them.
His wife, or his child.
How could he choose ?
He wakes up with a start, and by instinct reaches for you…but you’re not here. You haven’t been here for the past month and a half. Unable to soothe him back to sleep after one of his nightmare, as you would usually do.
Bruce felt like he was back when he was eight years old and just lost his parents. Back in Crime Alley that fateful night.
He couldn’t see the light, all hope had left him, all will of living slowly faded away, and he was full of so much anger and sadness.
Angry at the World, angry at life, angry at you…but the sorrow he felt was stronger. And he couldn’t use his anger, he couldn’t be strong this time, turn his life around to be able to live with the thought of loosing someone he loved so much, he couldn’t bear to live like this…Without you. He needed you. Your support. Your presence. Holding you in his arms was all he craved for…He looked at the spot you haven’t occupied in a month and a half and sighed.
He was almost hoping you’d open the bathroom door, and come back to bed with him, smiling…But you wouldn’t.
Not because you died, but because he “let your daughter die”.
Trigger Warning– Another mention of suicide. Nothing graphic, just be careful. This is another rough chapter, even though it’s not as bad as Seven was, and I fully expect you guys to be screaming at me by the end. I am prepared lol
ADDITIONAL CHAPTERS HERE ********************* The upside- or downside, depending on who you asked– to being basically immortal was that time didn’t really have a whole lot of influence on you.
Wade didn’t necessarily think he was immortal, but knowing that there might only be one or two things in the world that he couldn’t survive or regenerate from— well that was pretty damn close right?
He never really paid attention to the dates anymore, it didn’t matter what day of the week it was, or what month or anything really. Birthdays went unnoticed because he was almost positive he had stopped aging when his mutation was triggered, and holidays didn’t matter because he didn’t have any family or friends to spend them with.
So time– time was sort of irrelevant to the mercenary.
That being said, the days and weeks following his last talk with Peter had been the longest, loneliest, most painful days of his life.
Wade wasn’t even sure how many days it had been, to be honest. He just sort of sat on his bed and stared at the wall, or sat on a rooftop and stared down at the street, or sat in a restaurant and– well anyway.
He certainly wasn’t sleeping, or he at least he hadn’t been sleeping until he started drinking and taking prescription pain pills mixed with sleeping aids. And then he wasn’t sure if he passed out and slept or overdosed and died. It didn’t matter either way, he woke up or came back to life just as miserable as he had been before so…so who cares, right?
After the first week he had stopped going to their rooftop, and after the second week he had stopped chasing the sirens hoping to catch a glimpse of the familiar red and blue suit.
Spidey hadn’t been around.
Three weeks in, and Wade hadn’t even left his apartment in three days, couldn’t say the last time he ate, and was all out of alcohol so he just stretched out on the living room floor, staring blankly at the television and whatever shitty sit com was on.
Four weeks in, and Wade’s eyes snapped open one morning, a growl working it’s way from his throat, his Alpha shifting and anxious inside him. Wade swallowed hard, trying to force it back down, stumbling to the bathroom to wash his face, staring in horror as the Alpha red took over the usual brown of his eyes.
“Goddamnit.” he whispered, and rested his forehead against the cool porcelain sink. “Fucking Omega, don’t do this to me. I can’t do this, don’t do this to me.”
He knew what was going on, had been avoiding thinking about it weeks.
Peter had told him they had imprinted on each other, and Wade had been too nervous about sharing his heat, too amped on the scent of omega to really think about it right then. But after the heat, after their awful conversation, after Wade had spent a few days laying on his bed and hurting to his core because somewhere out there Peter’s heart was breaking, he remembered.
They had imprinted on each other. Which meant that their Alpha/ Omega sides had already claimed each other as mate, even if physically they weren’t mated yet.
So Wade’s depression over losing Peter had been compounded by Peter’s sadness, their bond affecting each other even without being in the same room. And Wade felt awful, because he knew if he had in fact overdosed on all those pills and died for a short period of time— Peter would have felt it. Not as strongly as if they were completely mated, but still enough to probably put him in bed sobbing until Wade’s heart started beating again.
So now, with the Alpha red taking over Wade’s eyes, with the way every inch of his body was tense, the way he couldn’t stop growling– well that could only mean one thing.
Peter was in heat again, which meant Wade was going to be stuck in a rut for the next twenty four hours. Hopefully only twenty four hours.